


Snap

by DancingGrimm



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Adorkable mercs, Gen, Humor, Vignettes, entire team, quite a lot of swearing, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingGrimm/pseuds/DancingGrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something odd is going on around the base, and it always seems to happen during the mercs' leisure time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap

Every morning, like clockwork, 300 push ups. Every morning. No exception. It didn't matter what else was going on in the base, it didn't matter what the other men were doing, it didn't matter how good breakfast started to smell when he was halfway through.

300 push ups.

Because discipline was good for a man. Good for the body and the mind. And Soldier was nothing if not disciplined.

He liked to exercise outdoors, and this morning he was out behind the workshop, dressed in pants and boots, his t-shirt hanging from the hook just inside the back door of the building. The sun was still low, and the patch of ground he was on was still in the shade of the base, so the hard-packed sand was cool and faintly damp beneath his hands.

100 push ups and he was thoroughly warmed up, sweat gathering on his back, but he didn't let it slow him down.

He could hear the rest of the base starting to rise, voices coming from the kitchens and the pipes clunking as somebody took a shower. Above him, a window scraped open and he could hear a radio playing inside.

200, and the sweat was starting to trickle down his sides and drip onto the sand underneath him. The toes of his boots ground hard into the sand, but they didn't slip.

He could hear off-key singing coming from inside now, the smells of bacon and oatmeal drifting out from the open door. A smile spread over Soldier's face as he felt himself nearing his target. There was a pounding of feet from beyond the door as Scout went barrelling through the base, Demo's laughter and

_click_

288, and Soldier froze as the faint sound registered in his ears. He locked his elbows and lifted his head enough to look around, the straps of his helmet flapping against the sides of his face. Hadn't sounded like a weapon.

Nobody was there. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He grimaced and set about getting his last twelve push ups done. It wouldn't do to skip any. Bad for discipline.

 

::

 

Scout linked his fingers together and stretched his arms up above his head. Leaned to the left, then to the right. Bent forward and let his arms and the weight of his upper body pull him down until he could set the palms of his hands on the floor and feel the sharp stretch all the way up the backs of his legs.

His heart was still pounding from his cardio, the muscles in his shoulders and back warm and slightly sore from the push ups Soldier had suggested he do. He'd managed 38 today before he face planted; personal best.

In front of him hung the punch bag. It was attached to a metal bracket in the ceiling of the gym, and a chain tethered the base of it to the floor. It wasn't the really big bag that Heavy used, but the one Medic and Demo liked, a bit lighter and springier. Scout walked up to it and pressed the knuckles of his right hand into the coarse fabric, pushing just hard enough to make the chain jingle a little.

Yeah, he could totally do this.

He'd had a singlet on to work out in, but he peeled it off and tossed it on the floor, then turned to the bench where he'd dropped his stuff and picked up one of his hand wraps. He checked the little loop in the end before slipping it over his thumb, and paced back and forth while he looped it over and over around his wrist, his knuckles, back to the wrist, and then frowned hard at it. He'd got the fabric rucked up somewhere, he could feel it.

He stuck the end of the wrap between his teeth and poked the fingers of his other hand into the fabric, trying to find the little fold without messing up the layers. He nearly got it, but only chased it around onto his palm, damn it. A bit more prodding, swearing through his clenched teeth, and it smoothed out completely. Still with the end of the strip in his teeth, he tugged on the middle of it with his fingers, making sure it was still tight enough.

There was a little cracking sound, and he stilled. Jeez, had that been his knuckles? He tugged on the wrap again and flexed his fingers. Felt okay.

What was that...whirring?

The gym door creaked a little, and he turned to look at it. Nobody had come in. It was a swing door though, could have just rocked on it's hinges. The room was silent. He looked around carefully, eyeing up the air for the blurry traces of a cloak, but he couldn't see anything. No sound of footsteps, no smell of smoke. No reason why Spy would want to sneak around in the gym anyway though, surely.

Scout shook off the feeling of unease and finished wrapping his hands.

 

::

 

It was Tuesday and sometimes Tuesdays were the days that rain fell, and sometimes they weren't, but this Tuesday was definitely _Definitely_ , one of the Tuesdays that the rain fell.

Pyro was certain of this, because it was raining.

Pyro was out in it. The others didn't like to be out in it, because of the mud more than the rain, but Pyro didn't mind the mud. The mud painted Pyro's boots in spotty patterns, and did funny impersonations of the bottoms of Pyro's feet.

The rain danced and sang on Pyro's suit, so softly that Pyro couldn't hear the words or make out the steps. But Pyro knew a song and dance when they heard one, oh yes.

And best of all, the bruise of the sky would heal, sooner or later, and then there might be-

Oh goodness!

If Pyro was very _Very_ lucky, there might even be a rainbow.

Not the little ones that Pyro made for their silly friends on the other team. A big, huge, shiny whole sky rainbow.

Even if today, Tuesday, wasn't a rainbow-lucky day, Pyro would enjoy the rain all the same, and live in hope for a rainbow next time. It was the only way to live.

Pyro ran out into the field behind the base, the mud leaping and bounding like tiny, splashy bunnies around their feet. The song and dance of the rain drops pattered and patterned onto their suit, and they couldn't resist joining in the only way they could. Pyro pulled off both of their gloves and thrust their hands up into the air, reaching for the rain, letting all of it's drops grab their hands as it danced.

Then right before Pyro's eyes, the sky bruise began to heal, and the rainbow maker, huge and yellow, peered through to look down at the world, to look at Pyro dancing with the raindrops, and Pyro was so _So_ happy.

And when the bruise was all cleared up and Pyro realised that there wasn't going to be a rainbow but-oh-well-it-was-nice-anyway, Pyro turned back to the base and saw Miss Purpling watching them from a doorway and smiling, and Miss Purpling smiling at you was almost as lucky-Tuesday-happy as a rainbow.

 

::

 

“Yogi Berra is not an American hero.”

“He is!” Soldier yelled, spitting a little. “He is absolutely, definitely an American!”

“Yeah, but he ain't no hero,” Scout insisted. “If he was, he wouldn't'a played for the frickin' Yankees.”

Pyro mumbled something at them, gesturing enthusiastically at nothing.

“Good point!” Soldier said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Scout, you are outnumbered! Admit defeat, son.”

“No way! I can't even tell what Py said. Besides, most a' the Sox are American, you ain't talkin' about them bein' heroes. What, not good enough for ya?”

At that, Soldier grabbed Scout by the collar of his shirt and gave him a good hard shake. He was about to start screaming, when Pyro giggled, dashed around behind him, and jammed both forefingers into the sides of his ribcage.

Soldier is ticklish. That's why he likes his uniform so much; the jacket is thick and protects him from such attacks. He didn't have his jacket on at that moment though, and instead of giving Scout a damn good telling off, he instead ended up whooping with unwitting laughter.

And of course, then, Scout cracked up too, and Soldier had to let go of his shirt in order to grab him around the middle and shove his own fingers into Scout's armpit, so Scout grabbed Pyro by the foot and squeezed, and about a minute later they were in a heap on the floor, red in the face, smiling and panting.

“Lefty Grove, how 'bout him?” Scout said into the quiet. “My Dad nearly named me after him, but Ma told 'im if he did I'd turn out weird.”

 

::

 

Heavy had been hard at it for two hours in the dim, muggy workshop when he finally began to realise that he might not be able to do what he wanted. For weeks now he had been trying to work out a way to upgrade Sasha, to alter her shape, or her weight distribution perhaps, to make her easier to move with. Work had been slow, necessarily, as he couldn't very well leave her in pieces when he still had to fight.

But only now did it occur to him that it may be impossible to alter her.

He might just have to make himself a whole new gun.

The thought was faintly repellent, like the idea of cheating on a lover.

But on the other hand, then he'd have _two_ guns.

The idea was not without appeal. Sasha would always be special, of course, but...

His attention was caught by a slight movement in the stream of light from the high window, and he turned his face towards it, then went still.

The tiny bird was back.

He'd seen it often, out on the battlefield, and up on the battlements when he went there to read, and several times flitting about between windowsills. It was perched up there now, round and bright and so small it looked like it shouldn't be real. A tiny, precious little creature of fancy.

He'd described it to Medic, who said that it was a European robin, and that they sometimes would approach a human who they deemed non-threatening. They were known to befriend people who gardened a lot, according to the book Medic had lent him.

Heavy didn't garden, but he supposed he did spend a lot of time outdoors.

A few days ago the robin had fluttered down into the workshop and perched on the handle of a tool box, looked at Heavy with curiosity for some minutes, and then flown away.

This time, Heavy was prepared.

He reached for his t-shirt (the heat in the workroom meant it was damp with sweat and had been hard to move in, so he had taken it off some time ago) and pulled the little folded paper packet out of the breast pocket. Inside, rattling quietly, was a small quantity of birdseed, given to him by the Medic. He began to unfold the packet, looked up, and saw the bird was gone from the windowsill.

The little flash of disappointment he felt vanished when, a moment later, he noticed the robin had returned to it's perch on the toolbox.

The toolbox was closer to where Heavy sat today than it had been previously. Thus the bird was closer. Its breast was a vibrant orange-red, its other feathers a soft brown. It's beak was a tiny thorn, its legs delicate stalks, its eyes minuscule black bearings. It was so very charming that he could begin to understand why Medic loved birds so much.

Slowly and carefully, Heavy tipped some of the seed out onto his palm, and held it out towards the robin.

He sat so still and so quiet, reigning in his breathing so as to make himself as inoffensive as possible, that he could actually feel his heartbeat slowing. The robin bobbed from side to side on its perch, tilting its little head this way and that to examine him with its glistening black eyes, weighing him up, considering risk versus food.

And then, with a sudden, quiet little flutter, it stood on the heel of his palm.

It weighed so little it was hard to believe it was really there, only the prickle of it's tiny claws against his skin reassuring Heavy that he wasn't imagining it. In one rapid movement, it dipped down and pecked up a fragment of seed. Peered up at his face. Cocked its head from side to side. Dipped down again.

Heavy was absolutely enchanted, so totally absorbed that is was some moments after the fact that he realised something had happened in the room. He blinked and lifted his head, as the robin continued to enjoy its feast, and looked around the room cautiously. Had the lights dimmed suddenly? Or perhaps they had brightened and then returned to normal. What could have caused such a thing?

The robin let out a soft, sweet chirrup, and all at once Heavy forgot about the lights and was enthralled once again.

He would have to ask Medic for more birdseed.

 

::

 

Lord Jesus but it was hot.

Well, that was sort of the point of a forge, weren't it. But the forges that Engie had worked on back in his training days, and back home at his own workshop, had both been in rooms with big ol' barn doors that you could open up, get some fresh air in. This new set up here on the base was sure high tech, but it relied on artificial ventilation. Wasn't the same.

He had his apron on, because it was real nasty to get hit in the belly with a spark, and he'd foregone his usual overalls for a pair of jeans. But even dressed in relatively little, he was sweating like a pig. The glove on his left hand was wet and slippy inside, and the fingers of his gunslinger were starting to feel a little tacky.

Damn good job he was nearly done.

It was a long piece of work, revolutionising the human understanding of physics, but it was rewarding too. Trouble with bleeding edge science, though, was that pretty often the tools you needed to do your experiments didn't actually exist yet. That's what he was making here, tools. He needed a pair of tongs that could directly interact with superheated Australium without turning into glass like steel did, or that weird wire stuff like titanium. The alloy he'd come up with seemed to be capable of holding up, all he had to do now was hammer it into shape.

Holding the second half of the tongs in place on his makeshift anvil with the gunslinger, he hefted his hammer up high and brought it down, good and precise. The impact rang up the bones of his arm and into his shoulder, clean and satisfying. He raised the hammer again.

Good, clean blow, the sound of metal on metal clamouring in his ears like an anthem.

Again.

Again.

And then there was a bright flash.

Shit, had that been the forge? Had something gotten in there? He let go of the tongs and carefully pushed his goggles up. The fire was burning steadily. There wasn't anything unusual about the smoke, or the scent.

What the hell had that flash been, then? He was pretty sure it hadn't been just sparks off anything.

He glanced around the workshop, but nothing seemed out of place at all.

With a shrug, he pulled his goggles back into place and set about finishing off his tongs.

 

 

::

 

Demo had long since gone past the point of having to worry about hangovers; when you drink the way he does, the achy little bastards don't have a chance of catching up with you. You're never sober enough to feel them.

All the same, though, it is good sometimes to clear your head.

Demo's preferred approach to this goal is through free weights. Not that he really needs the workout – anybody whose ever held a full sized claymore will tell you that swinging one of those fuckers around is all the upper body training you'll ever need. The reps of weight lifting though, the effort it takes, it's good for him. It blasts all the rubbish out of his brain, and lets him get down to brass tacks.

With a lot of work to do in the afternoon on some new large range explosives Miss Pauling wanted, he could really do with some brass tacks. The weight bench in the gymnasium was free and clean (Heavy always left a towel on it, messy fucker) and Demo walked in and sat straight down on it, just to stake his claim.

Nine men on this fucking base, all of them wanting to keep themselves in shape, and only one fucking weight bench. Unbe-fucking-lievable.

He took a last swig of rum to steady himself, stripped off his t-shirt, took another last swig of rum to cheer him up, checked that the weights on the bar were the ones he wanted, then took a final swig of rum just for the hell of it, set the bottle down beside the bench, and lay back.

The bar felt good against his palms, a solid, reassuring pressure. He squirmed his shoulders to settle them comfortably, checked his position on the bench, and began to lift.

The first big push upwards always felt horrible, but when the bar clicked against the catchers on the way back down, something inside his head lit up, and he felt a grin come up on his face.

Another push up and his muscles were starting to feel warm. Should have warmed up to start with, probably, but he couldn't make himself care that he hadn't.

Another push up and he felt the need to get himself into a rhythm, and this time when the bar came down he didn't even let it touch the catchers, he had it right back in the air again.

Up and down, up and down, smooth and even and burning his arms and-

_ka-click_

Aw fuck, shit, his shoulder!

He held still and waited to see where the pain would flare up.

And waited.

And waited.

Then, very carefully, he lowered the bar onto the catchers, slid down the bench, and sat up.

That had sounded like the noise his shoulder made when he pushed it too far, sure. But when he raised his hand to the spot where he'd been injured so long ago, he couldn't feel anything out of the ordinary. No twinges, no pains.

Finding his head was as clear as it was likely to get, and not wanting to tempt fate, Demo rose from the bench, picked up his bottle and his t-shirt, and left the gym.

 

::

 

“You know what I miss?” Demo asked the gathering at large. “I miss the grass.”

“Da,” Heavy rumbled, staring at his empty cocktail glass.

“Grass? There's grass here,” Engie said, gesturing vaguely to the window that overlooked the dark desert. “Some, anyway.”

Both of his team mates turned to look at him, Demo with the confounded squint of the very drunk, Heavy with a sozzled look of determination.

“Is not real grass,” Heavy said. “Is brown and crunchy and not, uh...not enough.”

“Fuckin' sparse shit,” Demo grumbled. “Real grass should be fresh an' green an' soft. And when you step on it it smells...”

“Like what?” Engie asked.

“Smells green,” Heavy said sadly. “I miss the green.”

“Keep forgettin' you grew up in a desert, man,” Demo said to Engie, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.

“Yeah. Wouldn't mind seein' a little more of the world, someday.”

“Go tae Scotland, mate. The highlands. Big fuckin mountains, an' green grass, an' purple heather, and...what else? Shit.”

“Sheep?” Heavy asked. “Big log people throw for prize?”

“Yeah, that's the fella,” Demo said.

“One day I go to Scotland. Throw big log. Win sheeps.”

“You miss Russia?” Engie asked him. Heavy made a rocking motion with his hand.

“Sometimes. Maybe. My family, I yearn for. The mountains, the spring and the snow, these things I love. But Russia, she is hard to trust.” He reached to the little shelf behind the couch and put his glass on it, glanced over at Demo who appeared to be half asleep, and turned back to Engie. “You do not miss Texas?

“I guess not so much. Desert towns are desert towns in a lot a' ways. I miss...people, I guess. But I burned a lot a' bridges before I left home. Made my share a' mistakes in that town.”

Heavy nodded solemnly. Then, only moments later, his face split in a grin. Uh oh, Engie knew that look; after hours of drinking, the alcohol had finally hit his brain.

“Is okay though, because we have team,” Heavy announced, waking Demo.

“Yeah, yeah we do,” Engie said soothingly, patting him on the arm.

“We are credit to team!”

“Fuck yeah, man,” Demo said, and Heavy took that as his cue to reach out both his arms and drag his team mates closer to him. Demo immediately hugged on to him like a disorientated, booze-happy koala.

“Embrace, comrades!” Heavy cried.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Engie said, unable to keep a smile off his face. He stuck his arm around Heavy and got pulled into more or less of a brawl when Demo decided to try and squish the both of them. Heavy threw back his head and laughed.

“Kiss me!” he yelled.

“Fuck no, man.”

 

::

 

In the barbarous environment that seemed to naturally come about when a number of men were forced to cohabit, it did one good to retain a firm grip on civilisation. That had always been Medic's feelings, at least. After all of the violence and vivisection was done for the day, he would remove himself from the company of his boisterous colleagues and try to remind himself that he had been brought up a gentleman.

He would read some antique medical text – always a font of ideas, as well as a soothing preoccupation – or do some little experiment, or play with his doves, or perhaps groom himself a little. It was good to take care of one's appearance. A man should be presentable, at the very least.

This evening, having washed off the dried blood and stitched up the gash in his leg, he decided to treat himself to a proper shave. The safety razors that the company stocked in the shared bathroom were all well and good, but didn't compare to the real thing. A really good, close shave, that would leave him feeling fresh.

He fetched a jug of hot water from the kitchen and set out his old Dresden wash basin on the desk in his quarters, then placed towels and razor and the brush, soap, and mug alongside it. He took off his waistcoat, tie and shirt and stood before the mirror in his singlet. His whiskers were short but dense, and they always grew in annoyingly quickly. A real shave tended to hold it off for a little longer than usual, though.

He mixed up the soap suds in the mug, then wetted his face and brushed the soap on, rubbing it in well. He flicked the razor open, ran his eyes along the edge to check that it was keen (even though he sharpened it regularly), and without hesitation, made the first satisfying swipe of the blade from his jaw up to his cheek. The smooth, pinkened stretch of skin gleamed faintly in the mirror. He wiped the foam and trimmed whiskers onto his towel and finished off the rest of that cheek with another clean swipe. Shaving his top lip was always a little fiddly, but he took care of it easily enough, then-

Was that somebody in the lab? He walked over to the door that led from his quarters to the short corridor that led into the medical lab, and peered through, razor in hand. He had left the small desk light on, in case anybody dropped by in the night for antacids or painkillers, and he could see the faint gleam of it through the crack in the lab door. There was no sound though, nothing to indicate movement. He glanced across his room, where (ein, zwei, drei...) all of the doves were snoozing peacefully in their cage. Ah well, perhaps he imagined it. It wouldn't be the first time.

He returned to his mirror and saw that some of the water from his shaved cheek had dribbled down his neck, leaving tracks through the soap suds. Tutting to himself as he brushed on more soap, he took off his glasses and hooked them onto the front of his singlet, before tipping back his head and, fingertips on the edge of his jaw to ensure the skin was taut, began on his throat.

He heard the sound again, or thought he did, but he ignored it.

 

::

 

It wasn't that Sniper was obsessed with work. He just liked it up there on the battlements, that was all. Sure, he spent much of his day up there shooting folks in the head for money, but that didn't mean it wasn't a nice place to hang out after hours. There was a good view over the desert, and a nice, fresh breeze when the wind was right, so he could feel the cool of the evening coming in. He could stand out on the catwalk and look at at the horizon, feel the weather on his skin, or he could settle inside, in the privacy of the dusty shadows, with his newspaper and his transistor radio, and just be quiet and still.

None of the other lads came up there outside of battle hours, so he knew he would have plenty of time to himself. It had been a scorcher of a day, and the heat still lingered even though the sun was touching the horizon. Sniper stripped off his shirts and, after a moment's consideration, took off his boots and socks and belt, and dropped comfortably into the beaten up old deckchair he kept stashed in a corner. He had a lantern but, without his sunglasses on, his eyes adjusted comfortably to the low light, and he settled in to read his newly delivered copy of that month's _Outdoorsman_. He was halfway through a really good article on piranha fishing when he heard footsteps, and raised his head to listen. Somebody was approaching his spot, but not along the battlements. They were out in the field, walking towards his position from ground level. They were well outside battle hours though. Whoever it was, he wasn't going to show his face and let the enemy – or, hell, any of his own team – know where he liked to spend his time. His spot was staying private.

A little while later, just at the end of an editorial piece on the Kon-Tiki Expedition, he heard the footsteps retracing what sounded like the same path; towards him, across the ground, only they were treading more heavily. Almost stamping. None of his business, he decided, what somebody had decided to do on their own time. It was theirs to waste, after all, stomping about in the scrub.

He'd just started on an article about a guy who performed surgery on himself to remove a Sumatran Bloodworm from the main artery in his leg (bloody idiot letting it get in there in the first place) and was thinking he should let Medic read it when he was done, when he heard a sort of cough coming from down on the ground, not far from the edge of the battlement.

Okay, so now he was a bit curious. He put his glasses back on, got to his feet, and walked up to the railing. The sun was almost down now, the last warm light spreading hotly over the land, and even with his glasses it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to it. He rested his forearm against the strut above his head and leaned his hip against the railing, waiting for the flare of light in his vision to fade.

Once his eyes cleared, he immediately spotted the figure standing below, in amongst the scrubby plants, holding something small and boxy in their hands.

“Miss Pauling?”

She gave him a wave. “Where is everybody?” she called up to him.

“Dining room,” he replied. “Pyro lit the rec room on fire couple a' nights ago. While 'till dinner, but they'll be there.”

She nodded and went inside. Why she didn't just yell in the first place if she knew he was there, he couldn't fathom.

 

::

 

Naturally a mirror was far inferior as a fencing partner than a real person, but given the alternative options available to him, Spy had long since decided he would have to make do.

Oh, it wasn't that he was the only person on base who fenced. The Medic was quite adept, actually, but he was a sabreur, while Spy far preferred épée. They had tried sparring together once or twice, but were completely incompatible. It wasn't the same as real fighting, that was the trouble. One wanted to learn from the combat, not merely to win, but to improve. With Medic bashing away at him, he couldn't really focus on his form.

Fortunately, in one of the many small store rooms littered around the base, there was a large mirror against one wall. It gave the room something of a look of a dance studio, especially as the flooring was that same slightly rubbery sort as the gym, though the lighting was dingy and uneven. Spy was there at his usual time, after battle but before dinner, early enough that he would be able to have a shower and dress in fresh clothes before he sat down to eat. He had changed in the room and hung his suit on hooks next to the door, rather than walk through the base in his britches and plastron and suffer the mockery of his esteemed team mates.

Having completed his warm up, he pulled on his glove, picked up his  épée, and took up his stance in front of the mirror. 

He should have been wearing a jacket over his plastron, but without the need for it's protective layers, and given the sweltering desert heat, he couldn't quite bring himself to it. His plastron lay against his bare skin, his right forearm and the left side of his torso exposed to the air. The high waist of his britches hugged his narrow hips, the blousy legs and long socks showing off the slender length of his legs. He could admit to vanity; it was unlikely that he would have come so far in his sport if the uniform did not flatter him so well.

He had left off the mask as well, as it did not fit easily over his balaclava, which he had no desire to remove. And of course, he had a far clearer view of himself, as he adjusted his stance carefully. Heels perfectly in line, his feet at precise right angles to one another, knees bent and weight balanced just so, he pointed the tip of his weapon at his mirror image's chest and took a brisk, smooth step forwards.

He observed himself in the mirror with great attention, checked his position again as he completed the step, and took another. Faster and faster, until the tip of his épée almost touched the glass, then backwards. Little shuffling steps and long loping ones, holding himself just that little bit lower or higher, his back straight, his arms stretched out just enough, he danced back and forth across the floor, dodging and feinting with his imagined opponent.

The muscles of his legs felt hot, threatening to start burning. His heart was pounding, his breath coming faster. He kept moving, stepping, dodging, and then

He lunged! Thrust himself forwards on his back leg, darted his arm and his épée forwards like a spear, and caught himself in position on his front foot.

He regarded himself in the mirror. His form was perfect still, the lunge long and powerful and graceful. He held the position. Didn't quiver, didn't drop his arm. Made eye contact with his reflection, daring himself to just try and upset this poise.

The door of his little room creaked and, momentarily stunned, Spy awkwardly recovered his footing and turned towards it. It was just barely open. Out in the corridor beyond, he heard the soft tap of a footstep, then the creak of the door into the main store room.

Spy considered going after whoever that had been. But he was sweaty and half dressed, and only part way through his work out. He would have to figure out who it was later. All they did was peep at him, after all. He would see who made fun of him at dinner, or maybe tomorrow morning. His team mates were petty and frequently bored, after all. They wouldn't be able to resist.

 

::

 

By the end of the next day's battle, nobody had mentioned the fencing incident to Spy at all. Nobody had even so much as looked at him funny.

Which, in and of itself, was highly suspicious.

He was on edge all day, and by the time evening came around, and he was ready to shower off the sweat from his fencing practice before dinner, he was annoyed to find that the shared shower facilities were already in use by two of his team mates. It was just another of the many little trials of living in such a place, but still, he did prefer his privacy. He would have to keep his mask on if he couldn't lock everyone out.

Medic and Sniper were talking as they showered, and Spy listened idly to them as he undressed.

“So it is a parasite?”

“You ain't heard of a Bloodworm? Woulda' thought it's be right up your street. See, they get in through a little wound-”

“Vhereabouts?”

“Anywhere, though usually on the legs, 'cos they live in water.”

“And zhey just settle down and live on zhe blood supply?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“This sounds disgusting, whatever it is,” Spy said, joining them under the row of showerheads. “Must you talk about waterborn parasites while bathing?”

Sniper grunted at him. “It is interesting,” Medic insisted, busily scrubbing shampoo out of his hair.

Spy elected to change the subject. “Doctor, I want to order a new glove. Do you still have that equipment catalogue?”

“Of course, I will bring it to dinner.”

“Just the one glove?” Sniper asked

“For fencing,” Spy said. “My current one is wearing through at the palm.”

“Yeah? What ya' been doin' with it besides fencing?”

“Poor attempt at humour,” Spy told him, over the Medic's extravagant laughter.

Sniper, who was turned half towards him, leaned backwards while soaping his armpit, to look at Spy around Medic's back.

“Got to take a laugh where you can get it, mate,” he said dourly.

Spy glanced towards the door, and a smile crossed his face. Sniper frowned at him.

“What is it?”

The door creaked a little on its hinges.

“Oh, nothing,” Spy said.

 

::

 

“Anyone notice somebody sneakin' around the base at all?” Demo asked at dinner. “Only, I reckon somebody was lurkin' around outside the gym while I was in there, and so does Scout.”

“Somebody vas in zhe lab a couple of evenings ago, I zhink. I heard footsteps, but nozhing else.”

He looked around the table, but the others shook their heads.

“Though I saw...I dunno, funny flash o' light. Coulda' just been my eyes,” Engie said slowly.

“I see too, maybe,” Heavy mused. “Not sure, though. Was distracted.”

“Miss Pauling was around earlier,” said Sniper. “You wanna tell 'er?”

After a few moments of group cogitation, Demo said; “Nah. Probably nothin'. An' she's got enough to deal with.”

This was seconded by the others, and dinner resumed.

“Hey, Snipes?” Scout whispered after a while.

“Mm?”

“Miss Pauling...she say anythin' about me?”

“Nah.”

 

::

 

On the day it was released, the first annual 'Men of MannCo' Calendar immediately became the fastest selling item MannCo had ever produced. A week later, Miss Pauling sent a box of them along to the base, as well as a file of demographic sales data, and a letter stating that further complimentary copies had been sent to each of the mercs' home addresses.

Engie's picture (June) didn't show his face, for which he was very grateful. Both his and Soldier's (January) pages seemed especially popular among a certain type of young men. For his part, Soldier had to be calmed down and told that the whole calendar was part of a recruitment drive.

Scout (February) seemed to be popular among the younger teenage girls, who liked to see a non-threatening, baby-faced male. Scout's Ma liked her copy of the calendar very much (though she tore out the pages with her son in them before hanging the rest of it on her bedroom wall) and was pleased to see her son actually concentrating on something, even if it was only his hand wraps. She didn't approve of the tickle fight picture (April) however, as it showed both Scout and Soldier with their shirts rucked up, Soldier more-or-less between her baby boy's legs, and his hand resting incidentally on Pyro's ass. She warned that they'd all end up with the wrong sort of reputations.

Pyro's photo (March) and Spy's (November) were both praised for their artistic value, which Miss Pauling found very flattering. Pyro kept trying to talk to the other Pyro in the picture, while Spy, ever modest, had his framed and hung in his quarters.

Heavy's picture (May) was surprisingly sweet. And popular; it seemed a lot of women very much enjoyed pictures of large, powerful men being cute with tiny animals. His sisters took both that photo and the one in which he was hugging with his colleagues (August) out of the calendar, framed them, and gave them to their mother, who had rather poor eyesight and didn't notice that the robin one had had a shirt added to it with crayon. The sisters then spent the rest of the year sharing the pages that did not feature their brother amongst themselves, and hoping that they would receive copies of next year's calendar too.

Some months after the fact, Demo (July) saw his picture taped to the wall in a gym while on a contract in New Jersey, and was insufferably smug for a whole week. It took the sting out of the phone call from his mother, asking why he had time to be shoving weights around when he could be working.

Sniper (October) had a very long phone conversation with his mother, and spent the next week of battle creating a pretty respectable bloodbath to work off the stress. Medic (September) was inclined to just laugh at the whole thing, until he got to the group shot of them in the shower, (December) which showed his bare ass. Sniper's mother had a lot to say about that one, as well, especially as the only thing keeping that picture from showing full frontal male nudity was a little logo over Spy's crotch reading 'Merry Smissmass'.

Spy claimed he had known nothing about what Miss Pauling was up to, or that she had been furtively going around the base with a camera. But the grin he was directing at the viewer as he stood under the spray of water in the shower suggested he was, as always, a big fat liar.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed that. It was a fun one to write, not least because I got to come up with all the scenarios I'd kind of like to see the mercs in *cough* moving on...  
> I maybe overwrote Spy's fencing bit, but that's only because I took up fencing last year and am very keen on it. Strictly speaking, you don't need to wear a plastron if you're fencing epee, as long as your jacket is sturdy, but what the heck. And the britches make everyone's legs look amazing, though they do have a really awkward looking fly zip, so it sort of balances out.  
> Also, I love robins.  
> If anyone wants to, like, draw any of these...I wouldn't be averse, you know?


End file.
